Light and Ash
by foxcub
Summary: Jack visits an old habit.


Title:** Light and Ash**

Author: foxcub

Rating: PG-13 (for swearing)

Disclaimers: Nope, not mine.

Spoilers: Outlaws

Summary: Jack visits an old habit.

_Light up, light up…as if you have a choice…_"Run"Snow Patrol

* * *

He'd discovered smoking in med school. Going fourteen hours a day on nothing but caffeine eventually wore down his aversion to the hypocrisy of doctors and nicotine.

He'd never told his father of his closet habit. Not that it mattered; once he'd gotten his residency he'd forced himself to quit—whether it had been out of concern for his health or fear of discovery, he didn't know. But whenever he lost the latest drunk driving victim or second-guessed himself during one of many sleep-deprived operations, he wanted that habit back.

But it wasn't what doctors—_good _doctors—did. Good doctors knew better.

In the real world.

Outside the real world, good doctors did not exist. Not really. The kind that do exist fix asthma with plants and bribe liars with drugs and give caveman CPR instead of admit defeat.

No. Good doctors cannot survive in an unreal world.

He stares at the crumpled soft pack in his hand. He'd found it in the mud not far from the caves, most likely the result of Sawyer's boar problems. He knows they're Sawyer's; none of the other survivors smoke, oddly enough. At least, none that he's seen.

He could give them back—after all, he's got no use for them. They're not pot, no real redeeming medical value in them.

Some force of gravity shakes the pack and he sees there are three cigarettes left. Three.

The memories of med school have always been close to the surface since around day two after the crash. Once the shock had worn off, he'd started functioning on an empty stomach and pure, sleepless will. He'd wanted to eat, to collapse for just a handful of seconds; his body and mind refused. Career and his father's approval had been replaced with reluctant leadership duties and survival instincts.

In the end, nothing's changed.

Except his father is now dead.

He slides a cigarette out of the pack, then looks around. The jungle is quiet, strangely free of the usual flow of sound. Like it's holding its breath, waiting for this small sin.

Pulling the match out of his back pocket, he lets his shoulders sag for the moment, this one single moment when he can stand to be weak.

Jack strikes the match against the trunk of the nearest tree and sighs.

"If ya needed a lighter, all you had to do was ask."

He's startled, but does an excellent job of hiding it. The match is lit, but he lets it burn.

"How'd you find me?" He tries to fold the pack into his palm. The other hand tucks into his chest, pressing the cigarette to his heart. He doesn't turn around.

Sawyer chuckles to himself. "What, you embarrassed about your little habit?"

"It's not a habit. It never was." It's said more for himself.

"That's what they all say, Doc."

He hears Sawyer's footsteps getting closer, coming up behind him. Then a hand is in his face, holding the lighter. A thumb flicks and there's flame.

"Go ahead. I won't tell, scout's honor."

If Sawyer had been a boy scout, Jack is Tammy Faye.

"C'mon, Doc, my finger's burnin'."

He shuts his eyes, swallows, then lights it. The drag he takes is long, slow, and so utterly fucking good.

He hates himself. And he hates that Sawyer is there to bear witness.

Jack ducks his head, blowing smoke at Sawyer's feet. "You can leave now."

"Why? Show's just gettin' started."

"Fine. I'll leave." He turns away as he takes another painfully sweet drag. He'll only take two more, only two more. Three more. Okay, four more.

Fuck.

"Did your doctor daddy smoke, too?"

Christian was none of his business, but it was Jack's fault he knew anything.

"No. He preferred the bottle. Little more user friendly, I guess." He refuses to look at Sawyer as he smokes, doesn't want to see the look of satisfaction in his eyes, even though he deserves it.

"Maybe other things weren't so friendly to him."

He jerks the cigarette out of his mouth. "What the hell does that mean?"

Sawyer's shrug is innocent, but his gaze is not. "Somethin's gotta drive a man to drink."

"You don't know shit about my father." He doesn't yell, just concentrates on flicking the ash away and keeping his eyes low. He straightens his shoulders as an afterthought.

"Fair enough. Guess I'm just talkin' outta my ass." Sawyer turns away, but Jack catches the slight shake of his head and the tiny smirk. He feels the cold chill of unease, but says nothing.

Then Sawyer's tossing the lighter at him.

"Keep it. I got more where that came from." Jack's pretty sure he means more than lighters.

As he walks off, Jack stands alone with his handful of dying ash. Though it's not completely gone, he drops the cigarette on the ground, watching it burn into the jungle floor. A thin trail of smoke lifts up. He doesn't snuff it out.

With Sawyer's lighter in one hand, he moves on to number two.


End file.
